


songs for wretches and villains

by ryoku



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Can be read as romance if you squint, Depression, Gen, Grieving, Major Character Death takes place before the fic starts, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryoku/pseuds/ryoku
Summary: After Caspar's death, Dorothea is very worried about Linhardt. He doesn't make it easy on either of them.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 15
Kudos: 23





	songs for wretches and villains

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to both Sophie, and Mei Mei for betaing this piece, even though they both have busy schedules and neither are into this fandom at all.

The night Caspar died, Dorothea found Linhardt in Hubert's room. She spent an hour trying to find him, and it was only a suspiciously ajar door that had even prompted her to look. After five years of laying dormant, and being vigorously cleaned, the room still smelt faintly of coffee. It had been unbearable when Hubert had lived in it, -not that she'd ever visited- but now the scent was nostalgic and sickeningly pleasant. 

There'd been talk of giving the empty rooms to whatever new troops they managed to amass, but she had a feeling Hubert would've left some sort of trap in his room for any unsuspecting victim. Obviously, that hadn't occurred or deterred Linhardt, who was dead to the world in Hubert's bed. He was facing the wall, just slightly curled in on himself, breathing even and slow. Didn't so much as twitch when she opened the door. 

Dorothea watched him for a few moments, considering if she should wake him. Instead, she left, closing the door behind her.

~

Everyone else seemed to put the loss out of their mind, like they had when Leonie had put an arrow through Ferdinand's lung in Lone Moon. Caspar didn't come up in conversation, and when she entered the training field, only Felix was there, as inhospitable and severe as usual. She kept expecting to hear Caspar trouncing around the halls, or laughing loudly in the cafeteria. It made her feel weak and resentful. 

When she left her room that morning, she heard Bernadetta crying, and like a moth to a flame, she'd gone to her door and called out to her. Bernadetta had denied it, and when Dorothea hadn't let her, she'd claimed she had dust in her eyes, and that the sunrise was gorgeous, and then asked Dorothea to leave. So there she was, standing outside the door while Bernadetta tried to keep her crying quiet. She could've been like Ingrid, and broken down the door, but instead, Dorothea walked away. 

Whenever the opportunity arose to actually talk about what was happening, to mourn their dead, or even just display her emotional turmoil, she was rebuffed. It couldn't be that the rest of them were heartless, but they simply didn't talk about their losses the way she needed to. It was an unspoken rule not to bring it up, one that she hadn't been informed of, and struggled to follow. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to. 

Nonetheless, she tried distractions, went through the motions of a normal day, sang her heart out to the cliffs of the Monastery. Let the sound be swallowed into the open air of pegasus and wyverns wings. It didn't work. Singing had gotten her through the toughest parts of her life, but it didn't help her now. All she could manage were the ballads, broken hearts and unrequited bitterness, songs for wretches and villains.

Linhardt wasn't at lunch, but that wasn't unusual, he often got lost in his studies or slept at odd hours. He'd wander in at strange times, expecting to be fed regardless. Nonetheless, she asked around, but no one had seen him. 

She didn't feel much like eating, but she forced food down, made suggestive conversation with Sylvain that was a painful display of 'just going through the motions' for both of them, and then excused herself to go and look for him. 

Linhardt wasn't there, but the sheets were more askew than normal, tumbling over each other in great heaps. When he slept properly, Linhardt laid unmoving like death. Sheets in disarray were a probable sign of nightmares. As students, she'd found him sleeping anywhere and everywhere. There'd been a couple instances where people unfamiliar with his sleeping habits had thought he was dead. That hadn't happened in a long time though, not since their early school days. Now that Dorothea thought of it, she probably should've noticed sooner that Lin didn't sleep out in the open anymore. 

When she found him later that evening - and only after Mercedes pointed her in the right direction – he was in the library. In any other circumstance it would've been a normal sight, Linhardt flipping pages lazily, hair escaping the loose bun and slipping into his eyes as the low light and musty smell of old paper filled the library's empty air. There might have been more people here once, studying or just getting a bit of quiet, but now it was just Lin, in a dusty room with a lone candle. Unfortunately, Dorothea knew what a crypt was like, and the feeling was similar, wrong somehow.

“I'd like some company for dinner.” She didn't, but she'd made worse concessions. 

Linhardt didn't look up at her, or do anything to acknowledge she was there at all. After a long pointed bit of waiting, and actually sitting on the table so he couldn't ignore her, he signed. His tone was lazy, with just a hit of inflection; just an average statement in Linhardt-ese “Someone else would be a better choice. Marianne was looking for a dining companion, you just missed her...” Linhardt looked up from his book to a small time piece on the table, and squinted. “Nevermind, she's probably eaten by now.” 

Dorothea reached over, and picked up the small candlestick sitting on the table, pulling it far enough away that the shadows made the book Lin was looking at difficult to read. 

“What are you reading that is more interesting than two cute girls?” 

“Many things,” he gave her a look that didn't meet her eyes, “but if you must know-” 

She interrupted him with a single finger to his lips, just a breath away from touching. “Get up Lin, you're going to dinner with me.” 

He waved her hand away. “I'd rather not.” His eyes darted to the candlestick she still held in the her other hand.

“I'll sick the professor on you.” 

“I've been meaning to speak with her anyway.” He made a paltry attempt to reach for the candlestick around her.

“Then we'll have dinner together.” She shifted, taking the light with her as she hopped off the table. “You can bring up whatever you'd like to discuss, and I'll humor you social delinquents.” 

“I'd rather you just send her here.” He was pouting now, in that 'not very noticeable' way that only familiarity made apparent, and that he only really directed towards inanimate objects; the book was the current recipient. 

“That isn't happening. Close your book Lin, let's go.” 

“The dining room is so loud, it's much nicer here.” 

“The library does not have food. We'll go into town. There's a bakery that's just opened up again. Professor won't have time to go with us, but we'll manage on our own.” 

“Going all the way into town for a bakery is too much effort.” He was finally looking at her instead of the book or the candle, and Dorothea could already see she'd won, she just had to haggle a bit over the specifics. She heard his stomach make a sound, but had the tact not to mention it. 

“We'll eat at a cafe, and pick up pastries on the way back. It'll be a nice evening stroll, where you can tell me all about that book your reading and I'll pretend to be interested.” 

“Fine,” he relented, much sooner than she'd expected. “I suppose friendships are about compromising, at least on some level.” He placed a long cloth book marker into the book, and slipped it into the satchel on his hip, collected his time piece off the table and they were off. 

~

Dinner wasn't bad. They both cleaned their plates, and Dorothea only had to suffer through a bit of 'Crest-talk' to get it. Linhardt was quieter than usual, and didn't fuss about the food like he normally would have, but Dorothea didn't focus on it. Whenever he stopped talking and got lost in his own head, she'd start up some innate conversation and pull him back. 

The bakery she'd mentioned wasn't far from the cafe and the pastries they picked up after dinner were well worth the trip on their own. More for Linhardt than herself, since she didn't love sweets the same way he did, but it was good to see that he had a healthy appetite. 

It was on the way back, after having light, pithy conversation, that Dorothea decided to damn the unspoken rule. 

“Lin, are there more things you're running from now?” 

Uncouth as always, he was munching on a jam filled pastry as they walked, taking little bird bites as he went. He didn't answer quickly, which was usual for him, but when he did answer, it was a simple, “yes.” Linhardt took another bite, finishing off the pastry before continuing. “It takes so much effort to remain unaffected.” 

“Caspar was your best friend, it would be odd if you weren't affected.” 

Linhardt huffed. “I'd rather be productive than miserable. Your singing today was dreadful.” 

She couldn't believe it, she'd spent so much time today trying to track him down, and he'd just seen her and walked away. For a second she fumed, before taking a deep breath to calm down. “I'm going to let that comment slide, but I'm not going to ignore the fact that you saw me and didn't say anything. I spent a good part of the day tracking you down.” 

“If I'd talked to you, I would've had to console you in some way. I'll ill equipped for that sort of thing under normal circumstances. I would've made it worse. 'I'm glad you aren't dead' is neither appropriate or conciliatory.” 

“Would you be saying that to Caspar if it had been me?” 

“No, he'd know not to bring it up. I'd disappointed him too many times for him to expect better of me. If he wasn't so thick skinned our friendship never would've worked.” 

Come to think of it, she never had seen them talk about anything important, but she'd always just assumed if such a thing came up, it would be in private, though why she'd thought that was beyond her. Caspar had the subtly of a bull even if he could be surprisingly sensitive to those around him. Linhardt was either far to direct, or avoided things all together. She couldn't imagine how they had dealt with anything complex. 

“It's alright to talk about him,” she said, just as much to herself as him. 

“It really isn't. 

“Isn't it better than forgetting him? He would want to be remembered.” 

“Then he shouldn't have died.” 

Dorothea stewed, quickly reaching the end of her patience with the conversation. “That's cold, Lin, even for you. He was your best friend. You were lucky to have him at all.” 

“I'm aware. I met Caspar when I was 6, and suddenly he's gone. I knew him for most of my life, and if I survive this war the time I have without him will outweigh what I had.” 

He took a breath, and it was just long enough for Dorothea to add a soft, “you need to survive the war, Lin.” 

He kept on as if he hadn't heard her. “I had a panic attack in the dinning hall this morning. It was still dark out, I thought it would be fine, but I can't even walk in without remembering how disgustingly he ate. My room isn't safe, because he'd barge in whenever he wanted. I couldn't sleep last night, because every time I fell asleep, I'd wake up thinking his ghost were breaking down the door. The dust and mud he tracked in from the training grounds yesterday is still all over the floor. I'm lucky he had no patience for the library, because every other place in the monastery reeks of him. And going home is going to be no different. He spent so much time there, mucking up the halls, breaking priceless antiques, making the place loud and putting smiles on the servants faces. There's just-” Lin stopped, took a deep breath, then spoke evenly again. “There's no point. I do not want to talk about it.”

She tactfully decided not to mention how he had just talked about it. A lot. “Are you just going to sleep in Hubert's room until we kill him too? Never going to set foot in the dining hall again? Not go home after the war? That doesn't make sense Lin.” 

“That's why I'm going to leave.” 

“What?” 

“I'm leaving. 

“When?” 

“I've started to arrange the details.” 

“Is that what you want? To literally run away?” 

“No, but it is a viable solution. I knew Caspar for so long, that there aren't going to be many people in my life that compare. If I leave every time something gets close to distresses me this much, then by the nature of the solution, I won't have as many problems to run from the longer I do it. ” 

“It would just be the opposite. You'd be running from everything.” 

“Not necessarily. When I leave, all of my ties here will be irrecoverably severed. I'm sure resentment will fester, you know, with desertion being so frowned upon. Everyone will call me a coward and a traitor, which is true. No one is going to come chasing me down, leaving me with less connections, and less potential for something to go wrong. By cutting my losses, I'm minimizing the damage this war is capable of inflicting on me. I was lucky at all to have Caspar as a friend, you're right about that. With how we bickered, and my general ineptitude at making friends to begin with, the chances of me having a similar relationship in any capacity is, slim. This is really the best for everyone. The army has Mercedes, Marianne, and Manuela; they'll manage the infirmary well enough.”

“So your conclusion is to just leave people, so they won't want you around anymore. That way you aren't effected when they die.” 

“Exactly. I won't even know.” 

“Even if that was a viable solution, there's a flaw in your logic Lin. Even if you leave, and we all decide to collectively rue the day you were born, that doesn't change your feelings. This is just a way of avoiding them, that doesn't mean they go away. You work hard to distance yourself from us, but you aren't really.” 

“It's a flaw, but not one that can't be worked around.” 

“For how long?”

“However long I need to. There's certainly no lack of places to go.” 

“Is it really Garreg Mach that bothers you? Are you going to think of Caspar every time you walk into a noisy dining area? Every time you smell his favorite dish? Lysithia when you enter a library, Marianne when you smell horses, or me when you hear a woman singing? By choosing to run away, you're making more things to avoid, not less. You're going to carry your baggage with you regardless Lin, you might as well carry it here, with the rest of us.” 

“I'd rather just leave it behind.” 

“So does everyone else. You're not special, Lin. No one else mentioned Caspar today. I heard Bern crying from her room, but when I asked if she was okay she just said there was dust in her eyes. Ashe hasn't left the kitchen, keeps pouring himself into prep work. I think the cooks are going to have to kick him out. Everyone is just trying to get through this war sane.” 

“You could come with me.” 

She didn't have anything to say to that, the offer so surprising that she was momentarily stunned. The worst part, was it was in Linhardt's characteristic frankness. He was serious, not just offering her something paltry. 

“It would be better than singing to the cliffs like a banshee,” he offered.

“Ferdie used to say I sang like a nymph.” 

“Caspar used to track me down to eat with him. He couldn't stand to eat alone. I hated it.” 

“He was my friend too. Like the little brother I never had.” 

“He hated that.”

“Most men do.” 

They didn't say anything for a while, just walked in silence. She thought Linhardt might start talking a few times, but it didn't happen for a long while. 

“I don't know how to do this,” Linhardt finally said, as they were making the long trek up to the monastery. 

“None of us do.” 

“That's hardly comforting.” 

“I'm not running away with you, Lin. If you need meals away from the dining hall, I'll go with you. And if I can't, someone else will. You don't have to eat alone, or sleep in your own bed. Don't talk about it if you don't want to, but don't throw everything away. And don't ignore me when you see me. This has to go both ways. You're not the only person who needs help.” 

She thought of crying alone, about how devastated she'd been when Ferdinand died, how crushed she was under the weight of it all. No one but the professor had come to speak with her about it, and the professor simply had no words. No one had wanted to talk about it, and when they realized she wanted to, they avoided her like she was diseased. Linhardt had been no different. It made her miss Petra terribly, even though she never wanted to see Petra again, because Dorothea would rather die than see Petra stand against them. She'd felt so alone, and that hadn't changed. 

He was looking at her critically, then reached over and grabbed her hand. It so startled her that she stopped walking. Without any extra prompting, he let her hand go, shrugging. “Physical reassurance can be helpful, but I've heard it varies. You were warned that I'm not good at this.” 

“Do you want to hold my hand?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“Never tell a girl you don't want to hold her hand.” She snatched up his hand, and they started walking again.

They walked in silence for a while. Dorothea was loath to admit it, but holding hands was strange. Linhardt's hand was cold compared to hers, and a bit sticky from the pastry. Though their hands were of similar size, his fingers were bony and long, and his grip wasn't very strong. It was weird to just, feel that, as they were walking. 

She'd never done this before. Any man that had been interested in her had been much more forward, either too handsy, or kept within the strict boundaries of politeness. Holding hands and walking like this was oddly domestic. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but made her hyper aware of how many things she'd never actually done. Holding hands and walking with someone wasn't a monumental task, but she felt like a child trying out something new, unsure if she liked it. She wondered what it would be like to do it with other people. Bern's hand would be delicate and fidgety, wouldn't it? Sylvain would probably freak out about it as much as she was. Petra and Edelgard would be unwavering, petite and strong as they held her hand. Would Ferdinand or Caspar's hands have been firm and calloused? Would Ferdinand have taken off his glove? Caspar would probably have been sweaty. Had either of them had a chance to do this? Thinking about it was a surprisingly effective diversion, and she let herself dwell on it -she didn't normally think about hand holding- so when Linhardt broke the silence, Dorothea found herself surprised by it. 

“Do you ever think about what would've happened if we'd stayed with the Black Eagles?” He asked suddenly. Obviously, the handholding hadn't prompted him towards similar distraction. 

“We'd probably be dead.” 

“It would've been inevitable.” Linhardt agreed, but he didn't say it like it would've been a tragedy or even regrettable. He sounded wistful, and that scared her. She pulled her hand out of his, and grabbed his arm till he stopped to turn and look at her. 

“Don't talk like that.” She found herself saying. It was strange, he was finally talking to her, not avoiding it, and now she didn't want to hear it. She couldn't stand the thought of Linhardt sitting alone, wistfully imagining his own death. She'd lost, and was going to lose too many people already. “Stay out of the fighting if you need to, but I don't want to hear you ever talk like that again.” 

He gave her a look, but otherwise ignored what she'd said. He slipped his arm out of her hold, reached for her hand again, and pulled her slowly along. They started walking. “Is it bad that I resent him? Caspar doesn't have to keep killing people anymore, doesn't have to watch this wretched continent tear itself apart, or be there when we kill Edelgard, Hubert or Petra. He doesn't have to remember that Ferdinand is dead, and that even if we win this war we'll leave Adrestia in ruins. It will take generations to recover from this, no matter who wins. All that's waiting for us is work, work, work, and to be remembered as traitors and murderers. I hate it. I wish it had been me.” 

“I don't want to hear it Lin.” 

“It's not because I want to die, but because I don't see an end. Peace will come, eventually, but this won't ever be over. Not in our life times.” 

What did one even say to that? She'd tried to shut him down, but it hadn't worked. She'd wanted this, but now that it had actually happened, she didn't know what to do. Maybe Annette or Ashe could've combated him with positivity, but her? She was struggling with her own overwhelming sense of helplessness and grief, and anyone who spoke with her knew it, because she couldn't just carry on like the others. She was so ill equipped for this conversation that it was almost laughable. Maybe that's why he could talk to her about it. He'd noticed her struggling too, even if he hadn't known how to deal with it. There was only one thing for her to say, the same thing she'd been telling herself for months, and even now she wasn't sure if it would be enough.

“I was an orphan on the streets of Enbar. All I had were the clothes on my back, what I could steal, and my voice. I wasn't old enough to sell myself, but it was going to happen. I knew it. I got up because I would die if I couldn't find food. It was hard, but I didn't have a choice. One day, someone from the Mittelfrank Opera Company heard me singing, and gave me a job. I held on long enough that life got better. I tell myself that every morning. If I just keep holding on, and doing what I can to survive, then things have to get better. I don't know when or how, but they do, and I have to believe that Lin, or I'll always be that little girl starving in an alley.”

“It's a nice sentiment but-” 

“Stop it Lin. Maybe some other time you can poke holes in it, or logic it to death, but not now. I need to believe that. Don't try and take it away from me just so you can keep feeling miserable.” 

For once, that shut him up. She thought he might pull away from her, that she might have crossed a line and they were done, but that didn't happen. 

“Thank you,” he said after a long silence. 

“You're welcome.” 

“I told you I don't know how to do this.” 

“We'll figure it out.” 

They were crossing into the monastery now, passing the low chatter of the market stalls as they packed up for the night. The evening air was crisp, like it might rain later that night. There were still people moving around, but the population had thinned out. Most people would be getting ready for bed now, a side effect of having taken so much time to track Linhardt down, and then walking to and from town. 

She expected that they'd part ways, that she'd go to her room on the first floor, and he to Hubert's on the second, and that would be it. They'd never talk about this conversation again, but perhaps Linhardt wouldn't run off. Instead, he pulled her gently into the empty green house. 

Typically there were two sconces lit in the green house, but only one was now, giving the place a darker feel. If it had been with anyone else and at any other time, it would've felt romantic, but that was the farthest thing from her mind. 

“Why are you doing this? I avoided you when I should've tried to comfort you. You were miserable, and I didn't do anything.” 

“I noticed.” 

“I wanted to. It surprised me. I wanted to make you feel better, but I couldn't. I didn't know how, so I didn't try. I want to feel better too, but I didn't know how to do that either.” He folded his arms in front of him, more defensive than anything, and he wasn't looking at her. “It feels like this war is taking everything from me. I don't sleep well, you're not the same person anymore, and Caspar is gone.” 

“I know.” She gently pulled his arms apart, holding each of his hands in hers, and gave him a soft squeeze. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, met her eyes with his, and started to cry.


End file.
